


Another Day Older

by Idol_pastimes



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:34:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22424146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idol_pastimes/pseuds/Idol_pastimes
Summary: He felt like he deserved this.  He'd lied and cheated and hurt the people that he loved the most.  Except, it wasn't him that was suffering.  It wasn't him with a bullet lodged in his chest.  Even though it almost felt like it was.Callum's POV of the Queen Vic hostage scenes and the hours after.
Relationships: Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Incredibly late to the party with this, I know, but as it's likely to be a Ballum-slow week following the last few epic episodes, I figured some folks might want to revisit one of the loveliest bits of televised H/C content in recent memory along with me. 
> 
> Hope it isn't just redundant at this point! :)

Chapter 1

It was sickeningly silent. 

Callum wasn’t sure if it was because of the ringing in his ears. A high-pitched buzz that was blocking out the sounds of people shrieking, stools scraping across the hardwood floor and the hammering of his own pulse inside his head. Things were moving around, jerky and detached, legs in front of his face and hands up, defensive, as his wedding guests dragged themselves and each other bodily away from the danger.

He’d heard gunshots before; even a caterer in the army had to know how to hold a gun, fire it, dismantle it. Knew the weight and sound of a gun, and most important of all to him, how to make it safe. He remembered the clatter of the firing range from across the drill yard and the smell of a discharged weapon. It’d become background noise, a familiar assault on the senses during his time served.

He’d certainly been up close and personal with deadly intent, too. Callum had thought he’d seen the last of it; hoped with every part of him that his last stint in the forces was the final time he’d have to feel that jolt of helpless terror when voices became raised, when the surety of violence eclipsed all sensible thought. When people were hurt for being in the wrong place. Where people – innocent people – died just for getting out of bed in the morning. Died because they’d crossed a street at that split second, that precise moment when somebody else decided that they’d play with life and death.

He shook his head and scrubbed a shaking hand over his right ear, scrunching his eyes shut. Sound was trickling back in, the echoes of the gun’s discharge seeping away, absorbed into walls and battered tables, making way for muted sobs and a gathering flurry of gasps, panicked breathing and-

Callum stopped.

He could feel his mouth flapping open and knew on some level that he must look exactly as Shirley’s nickname for him would suggest; like a halfwit. But the thought was there and gone in a flash as a flood of scorching hot then ice-cold realisation grabbed him around the chest and squeezed. 

_Ben_.

Awareness flooded in, pressing him down, down. He was on the floor, on all fours, staring down at Ben’s sprawled form. He could feel the solid edges of the bar pressing against the left side of his bicep. Callum couldn’t see Ben’s face, couldn’t look head-on at his, his _friend_ , eyes fixed and locked on the slowly reddening shirt tucked away behind his tailored, wine-coloured waistcoat. He knew all too well what he was likely to see if he pulled back the cloth. He’d been here before. He knew gunshot wounds and the smell of blood. And he could see the burgeoning puddle spreading onto the already tacky ground beneath him.

Callum tried to move, tried to shift, but his limbs weren’t co-operating. _Why was nobody helping? Why were they all just_ looking _?_

He raised his hands in supplication; looking for Jack, Mick, Kush, _anyone_ … They were just staring, moving so slowly it was painful, backing away with palms upraised. 

Then he saw Hunter, still standing. _It was all for nothing, then. Ben, this… He was still here, still wild and broken, still looking to hurt and hurt and…_

Callum’s voice cracked and his hands reached for the floppy form before him, shuffling into the pool of red, trying to scoop Ben away from it. Gorge rose in his throat as he felt how limp, how _corpse-like_ Ben’s upper body felt in his grip.

A choked cry of sheer panic caught in his throat and he gasped, trachea burning as he pushed it down, swallowed it away. 

‘Mick. Mick, get me a towel or something, I… I need to stop the bleeding.’

He knew he sounded panicked, desperate, even. No one could mistake it, and people would wonder. _When had Halfway and Ben Mitchell become such good friends? Close enough for one to cradle the other, close enough for a tremor to catch at his voice?_

It didn’t matter. He knew it; Callum couldn’t hide from this. He hadn’t been lying with what he’d said to Ben. He couldn’t be anything _but_ sincere. His best attribute, Whitney had said, over and over again. His biggest weakness, he knew. His dad had known, too. Had read all of his thoughts and fears on his face for all of those years. But he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t hide it. He just wasn’t wired that way.

He pulled and tugged at Ben’s upper body, dragging him up to drape more securely across his own. 

He’d seen the scrum of people trying to pull Hunter down and watched in fascinated horror as the pack of tussling blokes had subsumed Ben, drawing him into their midst. It hadn’t been surprising; it would have been a minor miracle if there’d been a fight and Ben _hadn’t_ been involved. If his face took anymore punches this month it would be more closely related to Play-Doh than flesh. It had become almost a daily occurrence, and Callum knew that most of the time, Ben asked for it.

But he hadn’t this time. He’d been following _him_ , trying to protect Callum, not winding people up or manipulating anyone. He’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up here, bleeding out on the floor in front of half of the square. And no one was _doing_ anything.

His hands fluttered over Ben’s panting chest, searching for a place to land where he wouldn’t hurt him, wouldn’t damage him anymore, but knowing that he needed to staunch the bleeding. Jack had passed him some bar towels for all the good that they would do, and Callum lost track of what was happening for another few moments.

He was close enough to Ben’s face to hear the tearing puffs of air being dragged through his friend’s lips, a tiny hitch of a whimper escaping with each one. Callum was mumbling nonsense, he knew, apologising as he pressed down over the wound and crushing his eyes shut as he felt Ben flinch away from the pressure.

‘…an ambulance…’ ‘…call ‘em…’ ‘… nurse… look…’ ‘…nobody calls!’

That last part was stuck in his mind.

‘Hunter, he’s bleeding.’

Callum’s words escaped without any thought, begging a man with nothing to lose to see sense, begging him not to take away someone that he’d only just started to allow himself to connect with. He refused to listen to the words of the others, shutting out Mick’s abrupt statement: ‘He’s gonna die if he don’t get help!’ 

He couldn’t believe that, not now. Not when he’d gone this far, given up so much. And God only knew, he might have spent a whole lot of time not liking Ben Mitchell to this point, but Callum wanted – so much, _so much_ – to take the time to get to know him, to learn to like him, to…

_Jesus, Whitney._

Callum’s head snapped around, searching for his fian-

_No. Not fiancée, you muppet._ Callum wondered at how similar his inner voice sounded to his dad in that moment. _Although he’d have said something far worse than muppet._

Not fiancée. But still precious, still loved. His eyes found hers through a gathering of crouched bodies, behind Mick and Linda, behind Sonia and Robbie. Shielded, protected. At least from the psycho with the gun.

Still, Callum cringed when her gaze flicked to his hands. He knew he was cradling the side of Ben’s face, the tips of his fingers brushing against the faintest wisps of hair at his temple, hovering over the scrapes and bruises already starting to turn a deeper shade of purple. He couldn’t help it. He might as well admit it now; he had never been able to _help it_. Ben’s skin just felt right under his palms, his limbs just kept on finding their way, _any way_ , to reach out and touch him. Whether it was in a furious grab of a collar or a hand held tight in support, Callum had known for some time that his skin and Ben’s _fit_.

He could see the moment when Whit realised it too. 

Her gaze shifted away from them and dropped to the floor, and she settled back onto the stage, turning her head.

Callum’s chest _pulled_ in response, but his hands never stopped moving. _And doesn’t that tell you everything?_ This time, that had sounded like Ben’s voice. 

He was going mad.

Blinking hard, he tried to focus. Hunter had arranged everyone on the floor like toddlers, silent and scared under his unhinged stare. Callum found himself transfixed by the rise and fall of Ben’s chest, the increasingly desperate tugs as he started to come round a little more and could recognise the pain of having had a bullet force its way through his ribcage. Callum would have been screaming by now, he was sure. Either Ben had felt pain before and could deal with it far better than he could – and wasn’t that a cheery thought? – or he was still in shock and couldn’t quite feel it yet. 

Callum hoped it was the latter, and that this would all be over by the time the numbness started to fade.

It didn’t look likely though.

His fingers kept stroking and he hitched Ben higher. 

Sonia had made her way over to them some time ago and although Callum felt bolstered by her obvious medical expertise, he’d had enough now. His back ached and his arms felt as though they were locked into place, keeping Ben steady and half-upright. 

They’d rearranged Ben so that Callum’s legs were on either side of his limp torso, his head propped up on Callum’s chest and his arms just splayed, lax and lifeless, palms turned upwards and lying wherever they’d drifted to as he’d been moved. One on Sonia’s lap, the other dangling half an inch off the floor over Callum’s own right thigh.

He felt sick as he looked at them.

Callum knew those hands. He’d felt them, held them, watched them as they clenched into fists and closed his eyes as they’d trailed over his jaw. Those hands cradled Lexi and played with crayons and fixed cars and cracked open bottles of lager and pointed in rage and waved about in frustration and-

Ben Mitchell. 

Callum closed his eyes and pressed his mouth against the crown of Ben’s head. He couldn’t cry, not here. But how could this be the end of a day like today? He’d nearly had everything that he’d ever hoped for, only to ruin it all before even getting started. 

Whit was beautiful, kind, funny and supportive.

But Ben-

Ben was all of those things too. Callum knew there were a lot of people who would disagree, would laugh in his face for even thinking it. But he’d seen it; he’d felt it with Ben from the first.

He was crass and obnoxious and an absolute pain in the backside most of the time. He went looking for fights and was never sorry when he dragged other people into his messes. He was catty and unapologetic and had a mouth quicker than his fists could back up most of the time, but still, still-

Callum couldn’t lose him. 

He couldn’t bear to lose anyone else. And definitely not this man who’d looked into his eyes and _seen him_. Who’d pushed all of his buttons and forced him to admit things to himself that he’d have hidden away for the rest of his days, given half a chance. Callum wondered at that. Why he didn’t hate Ben for dragging him out of his comfortable existence, spoiling everything that he could have had, could have been. 

Then again, Callum knew himself. At least, he knew this part of himself. He was too soft to hate anyone. Least of all the man he…

Ben’s breathing hitched again and Callum’s eyes filled with unwanted moisture. He was ignoring everything else, now. After Ben had told him his story for Lexi, sitting in virtual silence as the whole pub had listened in, Callum had just held on tighter, laying his palm flat against Ben’s cheek and feeling the last of Ben’s strength ebbing away. Ben couldn’t even support his own head at this point; it would have been hanging if not for Callum’s chest and hand keeping it in place. But if he didn’t move, he wouldn’t have to admit that. Then they’d still have time, still have a chance for this to end differently, so that it wouldn’t just be another missed chance, it wouldn’t be Chris all over again-

He knew Hunter was on the phone. He knew this was likely the police ringing to negotiate, to talk him down. Callum also knew that it wouldn’t end in any way that was good. He’d seen the look in Hunter’s eyes. He’d seen it before. He’d felt that kind of resignation and despair. Only difference was, Hunter had a loaded gun and a ready-made firing squad waiting outside. There was no fixing it.

A sudden fury stoked itself inside of him. _Why should he lose Ben because this guy wanted to end it all? Why should he lose out again? Why-_

Ben dragged in an agonisingly shallow breath and whispered through the exhale.

‘Tell Lexi I love her.’

Callum could see the reaction in the people around him; Mick’s expression crumpling as Linda dropped her head onto her husband’s shoulder, Jack turning his face away from the others. He wasn’t ready for this.

‘No, n-n-no, you can tell her yourself, you- you’ve not even finished that story yet!’ 

His hands were fluttering around, trying to find a spot that would revive Ben, keep him with them for a little while longer.

‘You’re gonna have to finish it.’

The breathless words flipped something in Callum that he hadn’t felt for years, not since before Whitney and the Square, before the Carters and before the army. Back when it was just him and sometimes Stuart and sometimes just his dad and in every way that actually mattered, he had _no one_. A mindless, boundless panic that he was being left alone; desperation mixed with fear and an unbridled need to have this all just _stop_. 

He was grabbing at Ben and he knew it, but he wanted, _needed_ him to stop, just stop _doing this_ and just _stay_. He looked around for someone, anyone to help him, to make this stop before it went too far and he lost someone else, someone he hadn’t even had the chance to call his own yet.

‘No, Ben!’

Sonia was leaning in and Callum pulled his hands away, not wanting to feel the breath leave Ben for the last time, not wanting to have Sonia in _their_ space, in _their_ world. If this was the last time he’d speak to Ben, the last time he’d-

‘You look at what you’ve done!’

The words burst from him with a sickening rise of bile up his throat. Callum knew his arms were stretched out in the air, hanging useless and ineffectual. He felt like a bloodied scarecrow, empty and dried up, everything that had ever been hopeful, been naïve in him shrivelling in these manic, desperate moments as Ben’s blood seeped through his wedding suit and stained him for all of his days.

Then Hunter’s eyes met his for one instant and his rage was just _gone_. 

This kid was too far beyond any reasoning and it was Callum’s choices that had put Ben in this situation. 

_Mitchell ain’t exactly innocent either, little brother! Led you on and left you right in the lurch, he ’as!_ Stuart’s voice resounded in his mind and there he had it, all three of the blokes in his life speaking up to hound him even when they weren’t around to help. Callum immediately felt a pang of guilt at that thought. _I’m sure Ben would help out if he could, bro. He may not be innocent but he wouldn’t leave me to get hurt. Not if he had the choice. I know you don’t trust him, Stu, but… I do. I think I really do._

Callum shook his head and lowered his mouth down to rest on Ben’s hair once more, closing his eyes. 

_And all it took was my wedding falling apart, a hostage situation and a gunshot wound to make me see it._

_Shirley was right after all. I am a half-wit._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Just keep breathing. 

In, out. 

Wait. 

In, out. 

Wait.

He pushed the third exhale out through his teeth as the world seeped back in.

Breathe in.

Callum heard the doors on the back of the ambulance slam shut and watched the lights flicker on as the engine coughed to life.

Out.

He let his head drop low, shoulder blades pulling taut as he scrubbed his palms over his cheeks, forehead, hair and back again, the friction drawing all of his attention. His fingernails dragging across his scalp were just beginning to verge on painful. He didn’t stop.

He knew he was breathing too hard. It didn’t matter that he knew. It wasn’t going to slow down just because he wanted it to; Callum had learned the hard way in bedrooms, toilet stalls, crouched on the floor by the dishwasher in a café kitchen that when these feelings kicked in, he didn’t have a say in the matter. He may not have spoken to a therapist since leaving the army, but he hadn’t forgotten the lessons he’d learned. Callum had ways of surviving that weren’t always perfect, but they were his, and they were familiar.

He blew out a lungful of air, hard, and clenched his eyes shut tight. The rhythm of his hands was all-consuming and he added to the motion by bouncing his legs. The more movement the better, he knew. Then he could focus on the tightening of his muscles working, working, working, blocking out everything else. He sucked in a heavy breath and held it, before forcing it out hard once more. 

A minute passed, then two, and finally, a loosening in his chest, in his head. He slowed the beat of his thigh against the bench seat and pushed his fingers into the now gel-less strands of his hair, a sad sounding hiccup escaping his lips. Callum had hated this sense of helplessness for so long, that this could sneak up on him and force him into this state of _paralysis_ , but in this moment, it was at least something that he knew, that he could predict, almost control.

He sat, waiting for the tingling absence of movement in his limbs to settle, counting the seconds of each exhale in his head. _Come on, Halfway. Pull yourself together, now. You’re fine, it’s fine, everyone’s…_

He couldn’t even finish the thought. They’d all heard the crack of the gunshot outside the Vic doors. Callum’d been on his knees at the time, two fingers touching the side of Ben’s head, trying to stop it from lolling about as awareness had flooded back in along with the renewed oxygen flow to his brain. Callum had been smiling down dopily, trying so hard to hide his relief and desperate joy from Whitney. She shouldn’t have to see it, so clearly printed all over his face. 

He’d been trying to catch Ben’s gaze, upside down and glazed as it was. The hazy eyes caught on his just the once and there’d been a glimmer of a smile, a tiny crinkle of cheeks before he’d been pushed aside by incoming paramedics and that battered face had been hidden by green uniforms and the hard plastic of an oxygen mask. Then, the _crack_ of the gunshot.

Callum had known all along how it would play out. The jump of fright was purely due to him having tuned in so thoroughly to Ben’s breathing and the shock of being jolted out of that rhythm almost took _his_ breath away. The paramedics had only paused but the rest of the punters had startled, Lisa’s wails of panic scraping over the shrieks of fear and the pub doors slamming open as folks ran out, unthinking, greeted by yells of ‘get back inside!’ 

He shook his head at the insanity of it all. It just didn’t make any sense. How were the paramedics in the pub before Hunter had been taken down? Was it him that Ben had smiled at, or was that just wishful thinking? He can’t have, now that Callum’s thinking about it; Ben’s eyes had rolled back in his head seconds after Sonia’s miracle save. He remembers that bit vividly, the panic of _is he dead? Oh god, Son, is he dead?_ , of hearing Phil’s roar of terror before her firm hand landed on his shoulder, her head shaking, _no, listen, Callum, you can hear him breathing, yeah? Just listen-_ and then, then the paramedics-

Callum pushed the palms of his hands over his eyes, pressing back the jumble of images and sounds, trying to squash them into some kind of manageable pile to process later. He was mixing them all up, making things up, inventing things that he’d wanted desperately to happen. Some witness he’ll be, can’t even keep the facts straight ten minutes after-

He stops and drops his hands between his knees, head sinking below his shoulders as he stares at the floor. _It ain’t like there’s gonna be anyone to charge though, is there, Half-wit. That psycho got himself blown away, just like he wanted. And good riddance, too._ Shirley’s voice resounded in his mind and he almost smiled. Even at her most cutting, the woman had a matter-of-fact way of looking at the world. It was almost comforting at times; no matter what was going on, Shirley’d never change. She couldn’t hide her real self for anything. Callum envied her for that.

He blew out a shaky breath just as a pair of trainers stepped into his line of vision. Callum had known it was coming, was surprised it had taken this long, really. But he wasn’t expecting the overwhelming wave of, of-

‘Hi littl’ bruv. This where you been hidin’, ay?’

Callum raised his head and couldn’t stop the sob that burst out of his throat at the sight of his big brother. He moved to hide his face again but Stuart was faster, dropping to a knee and pulling Callum forward, letting him press himself against that huge shoulder, wrap both arms around the broad back. 

He could hardly hear past the sound of his own hiccupping tears, but he could feel the rumble of his brother’s voice through his chest and could piece together the words.

‘You’re alright now, Callum; I promise, you’re alright. We’ll fix everything. I’ll help you to fix it.’

He buried his face deeper and held his breath to stop the desperate keen trying its hardest to burst up from his diaphragm.

_Nah. You ain’t got a clue, big brother. And you ain’t never gonna be able to fix everything that’s gone wrong today. Never._

Callum cringed away at the echo of a thought that whispered, _and some bits might be better off staying broken._

******************************************************************************

He was too hot. His neck was stiff and jammed at an awkward angle against the cushions and he groaned as he tried to straighten it out. His lips were dry and cracked and his throat ached. Callum pushed away from the back cushion of the sofa and drew a knee up, twisting around to take in the rest of the room as a thin blanket fell down to pool around his hips.

He scrubbed at his head and swallowed audibly, trying to work up some moisture before calling out.

‘Whit?’

Immediately he wanted to slap a palm over his mouth, wanted to claw the syllable back into his stupid throat. She wasn’t here. Why would she be here? He’d ruined that just like he ruined everything. Over and over, time and again, Halfway mucks stuff up. Story of his life.

Callum dragged his feet onto the floor and threw the blanket off to the side to avoid it wrapping any further around his legs. Stuart must have covered him up after he’d dropped off, although he couldn’t recall lying down. 

They had both made statements to a constable who’d rang the buzzer ten minutes after they’d made their way back to the flat, Stuart’s short and to the point and Callum’s a meandering mess of words that had had the police officer smiling softly and saying that she would call back tomorrow, ‘once he’d had some sleep’. His face burned anew at the memory, just as it had when the words had sunk in and as soon as she’d gone, Callum had dropped onto the sofa, flipping over to bury his face in the flowery cushion Whitney had bought last month. It used to smell of her perfume.

He looked around and spotted it on the floor. Callum huffed a solemn acknowledgement at the clear symbolism the universe was shoving in his face and threw it over on to the armchair, shaking his head as it landed flower-side down.

He needed a drink.

Hefting himself over to the sink, he fished out a glass and ran the water until it was clear and cold. Filling it, he left the water running and downed the liquid in one gulp, repeating the action twice more before standing the glass in the bowl and leaning forward to rest his arms on the rim of the sink, watching the water swirl and churn its way down the plughole.

Callum had no idea how long he stood there. He knew that his forearms ached and that the skin on his hands and thighs felt tight and brittle. He glanced down and caught sight of the dried brown stains that streaked him as a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. 

The sudden presence had him twisting away with a gasp, pinning himself against the far corner of the kitchen cabinets and scrabbling for something, anything to lash out with.

‘Whoa! Whoa there, littl’ bruv, it’s just me, it’s just me! Calm yourself down, Callum, it’s alright.’

The sound of rapid breathing flooded the small space and although Callum could see Stuart’s outstretched hand and placating expression, all he could feel was his initial and burning reaction to _get away get out get away run run run_ burning through him. The voice that burst out of his mouth was barely recognisable as his own and he didn’t blame Stuart for wincing at the sound.

‘What are you doing, you nutter? Grabbing me like that, you idjit, you trying to give me a heart attack? For Christ’s sake, Stuart, what’s the matter with you, I, I-’

Callum pressed his fingers over his eyes, which had the added benefit of forcing a palm over his mouth, trapping the tumult of insults and piercing, vicious words that he really wanted to throw at his brother behind his teeth. He could hear his quickened breathing and his fluttering pulse inside his head, both of which were now a counterpoint to the sloshing of three glasses of water which were desperately close to making a sudden reappearance. _Jesus, don’t think about that, don’t think, don’t think-_

‘I’d been talking to you for five minutes, Callum; you must’ve been in a world of your own, mate.’

That made it worse, in some way. That someone had been able to creep up on him after everything that had happened, that he’d left himself open and vulnerable _again_ ; God, he was such an _idiot_. 

‘Hey, you’re not, you’re not, Cal. Come on, bruv, come and sit down for a minute, alright? Just until you’ve chilled out a little. Got yourself all worked up again, haven’t ya? Well, I been out to grab us some chips and thought we could just have something to eat and put some rubbish telly on, or something, take our minds off things, yeah? Sound good?’

Callum felt himself being herded back towards the sofa and suddenly could smell the chips that must have been on the countertop for a while, judging by the condensation that was turning the paper wrappings damp and crinkled. He was losing it, completely losing it. He dragged in a deep breath and pulled back against Stuart’s guiding touch to his forearm, shaking his head.

‘Nah, nah, Stu; I can’t eat, I, I can’t. Not yet, not like-’

Callum looked down at the stripes trailing across his hands and marking his thighs from where the blood had seeped through his suit trousers. He could see them in a pile off to one side of the sofa now that he’d started to look around, take notice of his surroundings again. _No wonder that police officer had said she’d come back, Halfway; you’re barely functioning here_. The self-berating voice that had once sounded like his father was rapidly just becoming his own, and Callum did recognise the significance. Problem was, he was doing so much to screw up his life and the lives of everyone around him that he couldn’t find it in himself to see anything wrong with that. _At least now I know that it_ is _me who’s messing people up, just like dad always said_.

For the second time in under five minutes the sudden pressure from a heavy hand made him jump, but this time it didn’t back away as he flailed. A weight on his shoulder, Callum felt himself drop into the armchair and looked up in bewilderment at Stuart’s darkening face. His brother lowered himself slowly to the corner of the sofa, leaning forward to meet Callum’s gaze.

‘Now that’s enough of that, you got me, little brother? You’re not going to take the blame for all of the stuff that’s gone on today; not in the registry office, not in the pub, not nothin’, you hear me?’

Callum stared at his brother’s expression and could feel the water rising behind his eyes. _Shouldn’t have drank so much, Halfway, it’s gonna come seeping out now and you know what crying says about a man-_

‘Yeah. It says that you’re kind and generous and that you care about people, which is more than our old man ever has, so don’t you ever apologise for that, bruv.’

Callum was growing more confused by the second. How did Stuart know what he was thinking? How could he know-

‘Because I know you, Callum, more than you think. And also because you keep saying all of this stuff out loud, you muppet. Jesus, you need about another five hours’ kip and then maybe you’ll be firing on at least one cylinder, ay? But let’s get you cleaned up first, yeah? Can’t have you waking up with Mitchell’s blood all over you again, can we; definitely not doing anything for your-’

Callum’s eyes shot to meet Stuart’s soft gaze and his brother’s voice skittered to a halt as he realised what he’s said. He let out a sigh and shook his head once before leaning forward and planting a grounding hand over Callum’s, pressing both onto his bouncing knee and forcing it into stillness, if only for a few seconds.

‘I don’t know how he is, Cal; I tried asking Ian when I went for the chips but he was on his way to the hospital and barely gave me the time of day before he was gone and out the door with Kathy. We can phone up in a while, ask how he’s doing once things have settled down a little. Alright?’

He realised that he’d forgotten to nod until a beat too late and Callum could see the worry in his brother’s eyes. He licked his lips and dipped his head, unable to hold Stuart’s gaze when he wasn’t sure exactly what his brother could read in his. To this point, mixing Ben – _God, Ben –_ and his family had ended with nothing but pain on both sides. But, Stuart was trying. At the very least, he hadn’t just shrugged his shoulders and said ‘good riddance to him’, which would not have surprised Callum in the slightest.

Still, Callum didn’t know if that meant there was a possibility of a _me-and-Ben_ ever being alright with his brother, or even if there was going to ever be a _me-and-Ben_ at all, if he even wanted that, but- but especially not now, now when he didn’t know-

‘Come on, Cal. Up and into the shower, bruv. I’ll heat those chips up for you in about ten minutes, alright, so don’t go staying in there all day.’

He was being levered to his feet once more and Callum found himself following his brother’s orders without pause. Maybe that was what he needed, to default back to following instructions in order to be able to face all of, of, _this_.

‘Five minutes, bruv, alright? I’ll come knocking if you’re in there too long.’

Callum nodded and pushed the bathroom door shut quietly, just catching sight of Stuart scooping up his abandoned clothes from the living room floor before it clicked closed. Clearing away any more evidence of his disaster-wedding. 

Baby steps. _Just do as you’re told until you’ve processed today, Halfway._ He stepped under the shower before it had warmed and drew in a sharp breath as ice-cold hit him full in the chest.

The water ran pink as it spiralled down into the drain.

His face burned as he turned it up into the spray. 

Five minutes came and went.

Then ten. He turned the water off.

Callum sat on the closed toilet seat. He dried his face one last time and blew out a breath. 

_Just follow your orders._

_Keep control._

_One step at a time._

He clamped his eyes shut and saw red, opened them and turned his palms over, just to check.

Clean. Callum dragged his fingers through his hair and stood. 

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Keep it going, soldier.

In.

Out.

Pause.

In.

_All in._

_He was all in._

He knew it. He’d known it for weeks. He was all in on… whatever this was. Whatever it could be, so long as Ben-

In.

Out.

Breathe. 

Just breathe.

He heard the microwave ping in the next room and the stomping of his brother’s footsteps. 

_Breathe, Halfway. Just breathe._

If nothing else, he had to know. If Ben was alright. If he blamed Callum. What happens next. If _me-and-Ben_ was all just in his head. If they could be more.

Baby steps, soldier.

Just breathe in, breathe out. Move on to the next breath, and the one after that.

Callum dragged his fingers through his hair one last time and straightened up.

He opened the door.


End file.
